15 Scorponok Blackouts
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: TF2k7: A 15-part writing challenge proposed by a friend, focusing on Scorponok and Blackout.
1. Isolated

**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: 2007 Movie-verse, influenced by prequel comics and novelization.

**Characters**: Blackout, Scorponok, Starscream, Barricade, Frenzy, Brawl ("Devastator"), Bonecrusher

**Warnings**: Some violence

**Author's Note**: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

--

There was a sense of comfort, of soothing familiarity, in this strange devotion between them. It was not love; no, such a naïve, crude notion could not begin to illuminate the twisted lines of loyalty and subjection. Some would call it grotesque, a sick perversion of a bond – between lovers, some speculated, though they were not to be defined by such a primitive and vulgar term. Yet, neither were they simply friends, nor family, nor mere servant and master… this was something more, singular and extraordinary in its very distortion.

It was a thing built upon dependability, upon the intimacy of sharing the very core of oneself, one's very thoughts with another – yet mindless and raw as only wild things were.

A single entity, possessing two distinctly separate minds and bodies – mingling their lives, bound inextricably to the other. Parasite and host. Dominant and submissive. The lines blurred as to which fulfilled which role, at times. Such was the nature of symbiosis.

One was not complete without the other.

_Gone_.

In the bleak, solemn darkness, broken and battered within a world it did not understand, the isolated survivor reached out, and knew what it was to be alone.


	2. Clean

By general consensus, it was understood that Frenzy was to be their impromptu maintenance-bot.

Admittedly, he was a clever creature, small as he was, able to contort himself to acute angles so as to better reach problematic areas. He was both dexterous and adept at his improvised post, working with startling efficiency, mindful of the details and sensitive areas. As well, some had discovered, it was rather pleasant to have something so miniscule reaching such skillful hands into such delicate parts.

However, there was one the miniature Decepticon was, under no circumstances, allowed to ply his wiles upon.

This was made unmistakably clear with one motion, the point bluntly delivered by one massive foot crunching down mere nanometers from Frenzy's toe tips. Beneath its weight, the metal flooring warped and buckled, denting inward with a discordant groan of strained support beams.

Blackout leveled a dark glower across the dank chamber, to where the spy had skittered away, optics dim in the gloom of their extemporized headquarters. With a portentous, deliberate slowness, he lifted his primary firearm, leveling it with unmistakable intent at the smallest component of their group dynamic. Seeing the threat for what it was, the tiny creature backpedaled further, babbling gibberish as he went, hands wildly gyrating in a madcap gesticulations, the commandeered rags fluttering in their wake.

From behind the defensively placed foot, Scorponok flicked his tail, unperturbed by the demonstration.

"Cra-zy ssssss-s-stomping frag-drone," Frenzy snapped off, twitching spastically. "Stomping around like a—"

"Frenzy."

The spy stopped, vocalizer spitting out a static-laden chirrup as the low intonation rumbled from the near corner.

Barricade's optics flickered online, casting off a ruddy glow, diffuse illumination gleaming along the stark edges of his face. One hand tapped the floor, a rhythm of caution taught by knowledgeable spies, when words were imprudent.

Recognizing the pattern, the diminutive mechanism rattled off a random sequence, reluctantly retreating to the doorway. Casting a final, displeased glare back, he charily quit the room, nattering drivel and nonsense to himself, unintelligible rants reverberating off the low and close walls.

Blackout's gears whirled once more, in warning, before he removed his foot from its self-made crater, settling back into his perch easily. He beckoned with a silent pulse, opening his hand in a gesture for Scorponok to draw near, its twin reaching for the abandoned polish.

The symbiote lazily rose to his many feet, complying with his host's demand, sprawling half on Blackout's lap. His claws crossed daintily before him, tail going lax against the floor with a resounding 'clack'.

It was a small thing, yes, this little taboo. But important nonetheless.

Nobody could get the filthy creature as clean as Blackout could.


	3. Flag

Mars possessed a decidedly unpleasant atmosphere.

Though, initially, he had rather enjoyed the expansive, uncluttered airspace, and the ruddy color of its surface, it soon began to lose its scant allure as time marched on. Little broke the tedium; occasionally, a failed probe from their primary target planet; a particularly intense brawl between Brawl and Bonecrusher; Frenzy pitching a fit – these were the slim entertainments offered over the monotonous waiting.

Deeply unhappy, Blackout settled back on his haunches, claws digging deeper into the dusty sand that coated the planet's surface. Distantly, Starscream tinkered with another failed probe, examining the pathetic technology offered from organic minds. He seemed entirely absorbed in the self-appointed task, ignoring his fellows in his single-minded obsession to unlock every dull mystery the scientific research vessel held.

Of course the temporary commander would be well contented to wait; the longer he delayed, the longer he remained in control, with the unfortunate displacing of Megatron hanging over their heads. No, the second could not seize power for himself, having seen but once the result of such brash stupidity on the part of a predecessor. He would rather take the secondhand authority offered, conveniently dismissing the concern of Megatron's whereabouts as he fiddled about with the horrifyingly base probes and captured radio wavelengths. Research, he called it. Understanding the enemy.

Barricade would have called it tactical stalling, while the commander tried to formulate his circuitous machinations.

Further displeased, Blackout wrenched his thoughts away from the disagreeable subject, diffident optics drifting over the bare horizon. Great clouds of dust rose over a distant lump of a hill. Brawl and Bonecrusher were at it again, no doubt, sparring – though if it could even be labeled as such any longer, the way they tore into each others' fragile, unarmored bodies – to add interest in their captivity, gratified by brute violence and kindred sparks.

Barricade had wandered off some time ago, following after the madcap Frenzy; lest his diminutive infiltrator become lost once again.

Blackout, when one boiled it all down, was _bored_.

The same could not be said of Scorponok.

Indeed, the scorpion seemed to _thrive_ in his newfound element; diving down into the red sands as if it were the most natural environ for him to traverse. He left strange ripples and eddies in his wake, swiftly erased by the harsh winds – messages written in unintelligible languages, a record in movement. The sand shifted and moved for him, allowing liquid ease of movement, letting the symbiote navigate great distances in considerably less time than the land-handicapped Decepticons.

Where they would totter and stumble, graceless upon the shifting sands and uncertain footing, Scorponok would swim, diving and churning through the dust with preternatural ease.

It was moments like these that Blackout felt the acute pang of jealousy over the parasite's simple joy; watching as the long, riveted back broke the surface in response to him, his attention.

It was moments like these when he most wished they could stay forever, watching the sharp tail lifted like a flag, flashing over the seas of red sand.


	4. Leaf

"Strange," Barricade rumbled, optics scanning the autumn scarred trees with distaste. The leaves, dying and dead, were an array of color and brightness, wavering between the desperate mockery of flush life and dry collapse. Careful – a shocking delicacy he did not often display – the scout reached out, and plucked a vibrant red leaf free from its perch, twisting it between his fingertips, studying its form.

Beneath him, Frenzy chattered nervously, scanning the organic foliage with an aura of apprehension. "U-ugly," He added to Barricade's assessment, mandibles clicking against each other. The scout, for his part, shrugged absently, handing the leaf down to his companion. Frenzy snorted, snatching the delicate form with uncaring harshness, ripping it into little bits with his nimble hands. "Ugly planetoid." He grumbled to the larger mechanisms, settling onto his heels.

The scout shrugged again, dismissing the torn bits of vegetation that fluttered from his partner's fingertips. "True," He admitted, not bothering with further elaboration.

"Ugh. I hate carbon based life forms," Bonecrusher chimed in, sulking in the only clear patch of dirt. An irate squirrel darted around the tree nearest his head, chittering its displeasure. The Decepticon grimaced, slapping the annoying rodent away with a wet crunch. "So disgusting." He rumbled, wiping his newly-blood-slathered claw on the grass, huffing a sigh.

"At least its not more Martian dust. Never could get it all the way out of my gears," Brawl grumped, reemerging from his trek along the circumference of their meeting place. Ignoring the dark glower tossed to him by Bonecrusher, he flopped down behind the other warrior, back to back, as was long custom. Then, almost as a second thought, "Perimeter's clear."

Removed from the general assembly, Blackout wandered amongst the organic life, taking passive scans and running against backlogs acquired from the Internet.

_What a repulsive planet_, he thought, skirting the massive piles of dead shrubbery. The sun was uncomfortable and too close; the air too heavy, thick and reeking of carbon and oxygen. Its atmosphere, as well, left much to be desired. In most respects – unfortunately enough – he preferred the ruddy expanse of Mars' universal desert to this horrific ball of dirt and organics.

His hydraulic cables hissed, shoulders flexing, as he ambled about a corner, out of sight of his companions, glancing up to the disturbingly _light_ sky above. Water molecules floated in the upper atmosphere, fluffy and white and disquieting. Too much water for its own good, in his opinion. Too much potential for oxidation.

His optics expanded and contracted at the thought, a display of woe. First sand and dust; now he had to worry over _rust_ stains as well.

Somewhere to his left, Scorponok hissed and warbled his own response, weaving through the underbrush with the air of a master. His tail flashed about occasionally, spearing unfortunate organics who had gone to ground when the Decepticon force had arrived, reveling in the hunt.

Pleasure sensations washed through Blackout's primary cognitive circuits, cascading down through his sensor arrays. It was a mindless sort of glee, this slaughter; the base gratification of ending lives, striking quickly and effectively whilst the enemy still remained frozen by terror – knowing death was at hand, yet unable to comprehend it.

Reflexively, Blackout flexed his hands, claws curling in on themselves in a mindless indication of satisfaction. Scorponok would be well pleased upon this planetoid, as he inevitably seemed to be. Loose soil to hide within; plenty of prey with which to idle away his quiet moments…

The symbiote burbled in delight as a trio of small, long-eared mammalian rodents met their gory end upon his rotating claws and flicking tail, throats torn asunder before they had the opportunity to squeal.

"Scorponok," Blackout rumbled, voice lacking definitive inflection.

The parasitic scorpion paused, flicking his claws to cleanse them. Though radiating disappointment that his sport was at an end, he diligently came, bursting through piles of deadened leaves and rotted logs, the debris becoming caught in his riveted exoskeleton.

Blackout grimaced, foreseeing another cleaning venture to come. Crouching low, he plucked a few stray leaves from the scorpion's shoulder joints, flicking them away in aversion.

_Hunt-safe-happy_, came the sensations, the symbiote arching to brush his back against his extended fingers. _Home?_

Blackout spun the final leaf between his fingers, crushing its membranous form into a fragrant pulp. "Soon," He rumbled, letting the deformed remains crumble and fall to the earth. "Soon."


	5. Pet

**WARNING**: Spoilers for the _Transformers_ 2007 movie prequel novel, '_Ghosts of Yesterday_' below. Read at your own risk.

--

He should have realized there would be retribution. Some sort of lesson to further drive home the faux-commander's authority – beyond the usual verbal reprimand when he had challenged for leadership. Why had he pushed so far, after he had already been reduced to little more than scrap? Why had he struck such a strong nerve when he was already treading on a thin line between life and deactivation?

He had pushed too far for anything less than utter brutality.

Blackout drew his claws along the floor between his feet, optics flashing oddly as he watched a sparking wire slowly weave itself back into position. A shocking jolt of feeling ran through him, via the reattached cable, returning sensation to the otherwise deadened limb.

Trying his luck, he levered himself upright as best he could, testing his mass on the leg. It held – barely, but just enough to make him mobile again.

Grimacing at the spurt of liquid that shot forth from a still-mending tear, he took a hesitant step forward, making his way across the narrow chamber. Not bad. Not exactly as well as he would like, but on the track back to recovery.

His shoulders flexed. To business, then.

With as brisk a pace as he could set, he headed for the command deck, where the freshly-repaired Starscream no doubt brooded, trying to find some manner of a plan to roll the unfortunate turn of events back into his favor.

Ah! But how humiliated the seeker must have been, to have been so thoroughly trounced by a pack of insipid organics, in such a pathetic tin of a spacecraft. It gave Blackout no end of pleasure, remembering what he had witnessed from the safety of the Nemesis. So fitting for the self-serving glitch to be knocked down a few well-deserved pegs. What a blow to his ego that—

"Was one pounding not enough for you?" Bonecrusher sneered, watching his fellow Decepticon from a sheltered nook. His claw flexed, catching the dim light of the corridor. "Hate to see what he does to you this time."

"I am going to have a word with Starscream," Blackout replied levelly. "Surely a few questions will not provoke his wrath. If he chooses to turn violent, it will merely prove my point that he is an incompetent leader."

Bonecrusher bared his face in a mockery of a leering grin. "Such a martyr for your cause." He snorted, flicking his massive hands in a dismissive gesture. "Go along, then. We'll be using your scrap for spare parts."

"We'll see," Blackout grunted, shrugging off the other Decepticon's commentary. He turned once more to head toward the command deck, already organizing a series of well-placed insults to rile the seeker up.

"By the way, Blackout…"

He hesitated, glancing back, disliking the lilting tone in the larger mech's voice. "What?"

Bonecrusher guffawed, lumbering to his feet. He made a show of looking about him, twisting his head back and forth. "Where's that little pet of yours?"

It took several astroseconds for the question to sink in. His internals revved in a swirl of panic and anger, and he whirled about to charge down the last of the corridor, Bonecrusher's amused snort following behind him.

The door hissed open immediately, sliding discreetly to the side as he barreled into the room, optics flared to a hellish red.

But the deck was quiet, darkened save for the wan light of distant stars, displayed through the wide fore-windows. Prudence overtaking recklessness, the Decepticon slowed, pacing cautiously along the edge of the chamber.

"You know, Blackout, I always wondered how that relationship between you worked," Starscream purred, revealing himself. He tilted his head, giving the fuming Blackout a succinct perusal – quite well repaired, whilst Blackout still showed the rends and tears of his recent mauling. The commander chuckled, lowering his head, optics fixed on something upon the floor. With a sinking feeling, Blackout rounded the bend, his gaze dropping as well.

The symbiote writhed beneath one massive foot, scorched and blackened by the explosion and the later attack by Ratchet. Possessive fury welled up in Blackout, prompting him to step forward, to invade Starscream's space.

Scorponok squealed as the pressure increased on his damaged exterior, tail flicking ineffectually. An answering flare burned through Blackout's relays – such was the price of their parasitic relationship.

"Is it a simple drone and master scenario, or something… different?" Starscream queried idly, all amused innocence. "After all, you were so _eager_ to rush out and save the little insect, hmm? Quite altruistic, considering." His foot pressed downward, compressing the riveted back with one drawn out motion.

Blackout's knees buckled as a wash of primitive _pain-fear-hurt-anger_ washed through him, fed through their mind-deep connection. He snarled, armaments automatically whirring in a fierce desire to open fire.

"Foolish, foolish Blackout. I would have hoped my earlier lesson would have sunk in better than this." Starscream rose from his seat, settling his weight on the trapped parasite. "I had thought, momentarily, that it was out of some misguided sense of loyalty. But now, I think, it's much more selfish than that. After all, who would allow a part of themselves to die?" He shook his leg, joggling the mostly-lax symbiote free. "You really should keep better care of your pets."

Against his better judgment, Blackout bristled. He drew himself upright, ignoring the desperate plea for attention below, and drawled, "I recall Megatron being told the same."

There was a brief pause of disbelief, and he enjoyed the fleeting pleasure of having thoroughly stupefying the faux-commander. Then embarrassment and rage swept the all-too-brief expression away, leaving Blackout to face the consequences of his idiocy. Starscream snarled wordlessly, seizing the parasite by his long, deadly tail, hefting him aloft. "I see this has not set in well enough. Another demonstration is in order."

Scorponok's legs oscillated in alarm, scrabbling at purchase as he was unceremoniously flung against the wall, twice over, by the second in command. He burbled out in pain, wicked tail tip ineffectually stabbing at the empty air, unable to contort far enough to gouge the ungentle claws that clutched him. A third time he was swung, then a fourth, optics spinning madly, twitching growing ever more feeble.

_Painhurthelp_.

Shaking the dangling scorpion contemptuously, the Decepticon hefted it to optic level, sneering, "I ought to—"

The irascible commander got no further, knocked aside with incredible force, his hostage – and at least a good half of his hand – violently wrenched away. There was a spray of hydraulics and shattered components, then the commander was gone from Blackout's immediate vicinity.

He had a moment to gloat, to mentally congratulate himself on a move well-done, crushing the annexed limb to uselessness between his massive fingers.

Snatching his sparking wound to himself, Starscream rolled, coming up in a half crouch, and used his incredibly powerful legs to launch himself back into his aggressor, ending the transitory celebration.

Blackout grunted as the springing jet hit him, stumbling back several paces whilst he fought for balance, tossing Scorponok out of the way. The scorpion rolled and clicked his way across the floor, ending up half on his side against the far wall.

The next few moments he could not spare a thought for his companion; the world devolved into a tangle of limbs and blows and grunts, scrabbling claws and straining gears, a fight for dominion. He knew he was losing, badly; knew with a grim certainty that Starscream had taken his insult to spark, that he wouldn't likely walk away from this confrontation.

He intended to bring a few trophies with him to the void.

Sacrificing most of the plating on his upper arm to rending talons, Blackout used the temporary distraction to give himself an opening; reaching around with his free, largely undamaged hand to clasp the jutting protrusions from the seeker's shoulders, wrenching hard. Unfortunately, it did little to faze Starscream's assault, and he was rewarded for his exertions with a claw to the face, tearing free one of his optics. His perspective danced wildly, caught between a view of the floor and their hips, and the second swipe meant for his optic's twin.

He jerked back his head on instinct, stumbling and staggering backward.

Starscream, however, had other ideas.

He came in low and fast, shouldering the weakened Decepticon in the midsection, pushing him back into a corner, limiting his mobility. There was a whirr and a clank, then—

Fire and pain blossomed out of Blackout's chest, followed swiftly by a shriek. He writhed, arching back, howling in agony as Starscream opened short-range fire again and again, reducing his torso and waist to scrap and slagged metal.

A firm hand grabbed the jutting metal plates of his face, wrenching his head back. His free optic swung about on its remaining attachments, ready to fall free of his head.

Almost tenderly, Starscream cupped the dangling optic, and tore it free of its moorings in a hail of sparks.

Blackout howled anew, fingers scrabbling desperately at anything he could reach, desperate for escape. Dismissing the pathetic bid for freedom, the seeker leaned in closer, optic to optic with the badly damaged soldier. His partially missing free hand reached up, running smoothly along the sharp edges of Blackout's face, then reaching down and into the half-melted metal of his chest.

"Now, my foolish warrior, let us reiterate."

"N-no," He stuttered, shuddering, reduced to pushing weakly at Starscream's expansive chest. "Y-you're the leader, I won't—"

"Lesson one." Starscream spoke over him, crooning in malicious delight.

Blackout screamed as the claws wrapped around his Spark casing, crushing leisurely downward. The commander snorted in exasperation at the interruption. "I _said_, lesson one."

"P-pain hurts." Blackout repeated obediently. If not for the unyielding grasp of Starscream, his head would have rolled back into the wall.

"Excellent. Now, lesson two."

"Please, stop," He mewled, beyond the bounds of pride.

"Now, now, don't be such a Sparkling." Starscream murmured, running a much gentler finger along the outer edge of the casing. Blackout shuddered once more – hating himself – as it was more than just _pain_ now that moved him. "You will learn your lessons to my satisfaction, or this, mm, session will not end prettily, my dear Blackout. Lesson two."

"Pain continues to h-hurt, even when you want it to s-s-stop," Blackout mumbled, feeling consciousness beginning to fade. He was recompensed for his efforts by another delicate tracing of his Spark casing.

He couldn't help it. He groaned.

The commander nearly crowed, "And lesson three?"

"I- I don't know," Blackout moaned, his CPU shutting down.

"Mm. How disappointing."

There was a sense of crushing pressure, and agony shot through him, pushing him deep into the darkness. He distantly felt his body slide to the floor, the cruel support of Starscream's body gone. His head clanked against the floor, jarring his thoughts, crackling along his relays.

A hard foot prodded his side. "Is he deactivated?" Bonecrusher's voice floated lazily beyond him, cutting through the slow process of an unwilling shutdown. He wondered, fleetingly, when the other had entered the room, and how much he had seen.

"Hmph. Not quite. Get him repaired. I may be able to glean some use from him, still."

"As you will it, leader."

Then silence took him.


	6. Stuck

_Stuck_.

Blackout grunted. He had _realized_ that already. How could he not? He half stooped over the symbiote, hauling back with all he had in him to loose the wicked creature from not only a _corpse_, but a collapsed building as well. Behind him, the rest of their strike force milled about in the post-battle lull, checking for survivors and mangling cadavers for their sport. For the most part they stuck to manual dismemberment, in the interest of preserving their ammunition, but occasionally he heard the distinct '_ping_' of scattered fire against metal, a high, cheery little chime to counterpoint the rough voices of his sub-division.

Scorponok skittered his many legs across the broken ground, attempting to aid the struggle as best he could, but only succeeding in sending more rubble cascading down around their feet. Blackout shifted in discomfort as smaller stones lodged themselves in his myriad of leg joints, limiting his range of motion.

_Stuck-help-stuck_.

His engine revved and hissed, straining again to haul his symbiote free of his entrapment. "Still yourself," He rumbled, yanking as hard as he dared.

Scorponok burbled and shrieked as he was at last freed, several large sections of his back plating ripping clear from his body. Alarmed by the sudden flash of pain, Blackout released his grasp, and the symbiote skittered away, bucking and arching in agony.

The activity immediately surrounding them paused, as ruddy optics turned to assess their level of threat, scan for enemy activity, and then proceed to dismiss them completely. They went back about their business of useless destruction, venting the dregs of their rage against their inert foes, making quiet catcalls to each other all the while.

Blackout crouched low, snagging Scorponok by his tail and dragging him close once more. _Quiet, quiet_, he thought, reaching in with gentle claws to disconnect the proper wires, numbing the symbiote's pain. Scorponok heaved once more, then stilled, cooing in relief. Stroking one claw as one might to soothe a frightened Sparkling, he gathered the shredded remains of Scorponok's back plating, placing it in a neat bundle beside him. He would have to track their wayward medic and coerce his services once again. If the blasted mechanism had survived their skirmish, of course.

_Pain-hurt_, Scorponok sent, along the vague-yet-stirring sense of betrayed trust. _Hurt_.

Blackout contracted and expanded his optics, snorting in distaste. "Then you shouldn't have gotten in the way."

Scorponok considered his logic, deliberated, and found it of sound mind. Thus, in the manner of all Decepticons, he disregarded the pain inflicted upon him, and stored away the experience for future reference. Their kind had little room for sympathy and wallowing; one either moved on, or simply perished. It was harsh – cruel, really – but it was their way nonetheless.

Blackout hoped he took it to Spark. Creators only knew what he would do if the parasite managed to get himself caught beneath a collapsed ruin.

Again.


	7. Ebb

At last! At long last, Megatron was restored to them. No longer would he have to wait on petty substitutes, nor abide by others' contempt for his unwavering loyalty. Certainly he would be rewarded for such sentiments, for his steadfast _belief_. Megatron did not forget those who remained faithful to his cause.

And he always punished those who wavered from his glorious path.

The Pave Low trumpeted in glee, landing down on tarmac with a tremendous rumble. His optics fixed with reverent intensity upon the battle, upon the long-missed form of his one and only true commander. Now, _now_ they could get back to what their original plans were, to what they had begun. No longer simply chasing rogue Autobots around the galaxies; no more settling on dead worlds to wait out their foes. They could finally be as they were programmed to be: warriors, taking the universe planet by planet, until all were crushed beneath the mighty Decepticon empire. And Cybertron would be restored to them, wiped clean of the Autobot filth.

His hands flexed, extending his fingers to their full length, his helicopter-bladed weapon clanking its way into position. Cautious – ever so cautious! – he approached the dueling pair, skulking near the shadows between the primitive hive buildings of the Earthean primitives. Megatron, of course, easily held his own against the pathetic Prime – but he wouldn't object to a little aid from one of his loyalists, surely? A chance to reaffirm his devotion, and place himself once more into his leader's good graces.

Ah, to battle beside his leader, after so much time! To rend and tear and break all who opposed them, to revel in the screams and wails of the dying… he had missed such sensations, missed them terribly. Too long had he and his fellows wandered the depths of space, pursuing an enemy long defeated and hopelessly scattered; too long had he gone without the clash and roar of true combat; _too long_ had he existed as a pariah among his fellows, denied the honor of obeying a worthy commander's orders.

But now…

It would be sweet, to again be favored and privileged. All he had to do was—

What was that?

Incredulous, he looked down to the tiny pinpricks of green targeting lasers, shocked. The sheer _audacity_ of these primitives, to try and attack _him_ in such a manner. Fools!

Ah, they would pay for such presumption!

He whirled about, intending to take on their threat head on, to let them tremble in the long shadow cast by a Decepticon elite. Let them see death approach! Let their pathetic, squishy brains comprehend what little of terror they understood. He was Decepticon, and he was _war incarnate_.

Their heinously feeble weapons' fire pattered against his front and sides, doing little to faze the battle-hardened warrior. What could _they_ hope to accomplish that hundreds upon thousands of Autobots – and Decepticons, if he cared to think of it – could not? Their threat was nominal, at best. A laughable show of bravado that would prove to be their undoing.

Gurgling out a disdainful chortle, he casually activated his weapons' system, locking his primary armaments into position and—

One organic – as indistinguishable from the horde as any other human he had seen – broke free, gunning down the narrow corridor with a small, shrill vehicle. Blackout took a precious second to attempt to cognate what level of stupidity such a maneuver would take—

Then his world exploded.  


Howling in equal parts rage and pain, he staggered back, endeavoring to escape the rocketing sensations of agony that welled up in him. One detonation set off a cascading sequence of consequent discharges, igniting his delicate internals and pushing upward and onward and his Spark, oh, his Spark was _burning_ and—

Blindly, in the last, brief flashes of primal fear, he floundered for the fading link, desperate for some consolation, to ease his own pain as he had for the other so many times before. He felt bewilderment, and a void of understanding, mindlessly sympathetic in its own way. A question, a feeling of utter helplessness, and a cold, profound fear of the unimaginable coming into being washed through him, dimming as his body began to shut itself down, inch by anguished inch. With all he had left in him, he grabbed for that tenuous link, even as it slipped from his mind like waves from the shore.

His Spark guttered, failed, and life ebbed away.


	8. Hide and Seek

It was a shame, really, that the Autobots insisted upon destroying their bunkers before retreating. A waste of resources, truly – it merely created more work for both factions, and did nothing to deter the ex-Guardians relentless advance.

Blackout picked his way down the skittering, unsteady wreckage, ignoring the squeal of tortured metal beneath his feet. What appeared to be crooked limbs stuck out at strange and unnatural angles in the rubble; the last evidence of those who had been too slow to escape the explosion. Or, perhaps, they had never known it at all, deemed expendable by their distant superiors. Where, he wondered, had the ideals of compassion and decency gone off to? Had the Autobots lost their taste for nobility at 'Pax, or was it from the day the first city-state fell?

Reaching the bottom of the pile, Blackout dropped into a crouch, placing his thermal-sensitive claw tips against the rubble. Still warm, yes, but this was not entirely recent. His fellows, prize lost, had already moved on to the next target.

Even now, the horizon was blemished by a line of red and orange, the stars blotted out by thick, coiling smog. It was too far to bear witness to the slaughter, but it was to be assumed it would be as any other attack. The screaming, the wail of artillery, the roar of incendiary implements fulfilling their function… it was unfortunate that he had been delegated the task of back sweep, along with a few choice fellows.

Still, he supposed, such a task could have a reward all its own.

Straightening, he released the caches that would expel his passenger-symbiote.

Scorponok skittered across the ground, his legs scrabbling all directions to stabilize his body. His optics swiveled about, taking in the devastation, the ruined skyline, Blackout, everything. He burbled, cooed, pivoting about as he took it all in. The claws whirled and clicked and his tail flexed, and, just like that, he was gone.

Blackout watched the scrap settle back into the hole created, and waited.

Three point eight-nine-eight breems later, the first scream rent the air.

With a luxurious stretch, Blackout made his way toward the source of the sound. Down the devastated streets and piles of rubble, through half-melted slag and broken bodies, deeper into the heart of the dead city, he went. Occasionally, he registered the red light of Decepticon optics, investigating his progress and just as quickly dismissing him. There was, after all, more readily available fare.

Watching the last optic light turn and disappear into a husk of a building, Blackout headed for the deeper shadows, the Spark-deep connection guiding him on. He turned the last corner, and found his symbiote once more.

Scorponok cooed, one claw rotating in greeting. Beneath him, the small builder-type whimpered, utterly trapped beneath the Decepticon. It turned wide, terrified blue optics upon Blackout, its face blackened and burned, the leftmost portion partially melted.

"Please," It mewled, a weak and pathetic whisper. "Please, don't."

Blackout arranged his features in a benign smile, tilting his head aside as he watched the mechanism's plight unfold. "Why not?" he asked, voice husky with mirth.

"I, I didn't, I did _nothing_," the Autobot stuttered, shaking as Scorponok's tail flicked idly above his head. "I am just a builder. Please. Please, don't hurt me."

Blackout shrugged, hefting his primary weapon. "Request denied." And he began his firing sequence—

Only to shoot wide as a rather large and well-aimed chunk of dead metal struck his arm. Whipping his head aside to face the new threat, Blackout prepared himself for combat.

"Stand down!" the Autobot came sliding out from among the wreckage of what might have been an artistic statue, once. Holding a hand up, the builder snarled, "Stand down, Guardian."

Blackout, confused by the bravado, tilted his head, and lowered his arm slightly.

Emboldened, the mechanism approached, sidling closer to the downed Autobot. Scorponok clicked and chirruped a warning, legs hooking tight around his prize.

"What," Blackout asked, turning to keep the Autobot always directly before him. "foolish delusion do you live under to pretend to order _me_?"

"You are a Guardian. Your function is to serve," The mechanism said with unparalleled certainty. When Blackout did not immediately rend him limb from sparking limb for the transgression, he drew himself up a little straighter, a little taller, though he still did not so much as rise to Blackout's chest. "I have given you an order, soldier. Stand down." His head turned minutely to one side, though his optics remained fixed on the Decepticon. "Are you okay, Wheels?"

The pinned mechanism hesitated, and nodded slightly, gaze flicking from his savior and between the Decepticons. "Yes. Now I am."

"Good." A grim smile slipped briefly across the audacious builder's face. "Now. I order you to escort us to the edge of the city. You will defend us."

"It is a Guardian's function to serve and protect," Blackout acknowledged, circling the trapped Autobots. "This is true. It is unfortunate…" His surprise shot took the Autobot in the chest, sending him flying back into a broken wall. "… that I am no longer a Guardian."

Beneath Scorponok, 'Wheels' flailed, crying out in horror and sorrow. "No, no!" He wailed, one hand pushing at Scorponok's face while the other reached pathetically for his fallen comrade. "No, Tracks, no, please!"

Ignoring him, Blackout strolled to the fallen Autobot, glad that the trauma of the close-range shot had not immediately terminated him. He crouched low, grasping the lolling head firmly in one hand and wrenched the shuddering Autobot's face up so they were optic to optic. "Are you truly so stupid as to believe the old code still applies? Have you not seen the destruction of your city all around you?"

"… We… it wasn't…" Tracks' vocalizer cut out with a whine and a hissing spit of static. "Supposed… to protect…" he trembled, and with a bitter hatred Blackout had almost not thought the Autobots capable of, "… _traitor_."

"I have betrayed nothing. I am _Decepticon_, and I owe allegiance to no Autobot." With that, he placed his other hand on the side of the gasping mechanism's head, and twisted.

Tracks' head popped off with a wrench and a shudder, splattering fluids across Blackout's hands and chest. He rose, casually tossing the somewhat-alive head from hand to hand, and watched the light in the Autobot's optics dim out for the last time. At his feet, the body trembled and jittered and spasmed, the last electrical impulses playing out.

The pitiful creature beneath Scorponok screamed, and his cries were thick with agony.

Ignoring the disgraceful exhibition of Autobot sentimentality, Blackout tossed the useless head aside, rising and turning again to face Scorponok. The symbiote burbled in question, and jerked his tail toward the Autobot's face, who had just enough of a mind left to worry over self-preservation.

He broke off mid-sob, the sound morphing into a much more pleasing shriek. "No! No, please, please, please don't hurt me, don't, please," he gasped, optics nearly gone white from terror.

"Bah. There is no sport in this." Blackout rumbled, disgusted. He did not notice when his foot crushed the lower half of the recently-executed Autobot's head, as he strode about agitatedly. "There is never any fight in you."

Scorponok burbled again, contentedly. _Play_? Came the impulse-feeling, crackling over their shared Spark.

Blackout considered, brooding as he stared at the smog-choked sky. "Very well. Go." He said, turning away.

Chirruping, Scorponok clambered off his captive, legs clacking in an odd sort of dance while he waited. He raised his claws and whirled them and circled, delighted with his new game.

Wheels sat up, drawing his limbs close to his chest. He stared hard at Scorponok, and looked up with empty optics at Blackout. "Am… are you letting me go?" he sounded worn, and but bare inch from shattering into a thousand kibble-sized pieces – but for the thin, ragged thread of hope that laced his words.

"No," Blackout said, settling back to crouch. "But I suggest you start running."

The Autobot hesitated, casting Scorponok a terrified stare, and scrambled to his feet, half-hobbling as he took off into the city.

Scorponok cooed, preparing to dive forward—

"Now, that isn't sporting," Blackout grumbled, halting the symbiote's wild lunge with a wave of his hand. He grinned, and folded into his alternate mode, taking off into the sky.

Chirruping, Scorponok set off on his hunt, unerringly setting on the path his quarry had taken. Obstacles were of no matter to the nimble Scorponok; he was a master of difficult terrains, with a low center of gravity and drills more than capable of removing any blockage from his path.

Blackout chuckled to himself, watching as his symbiote closed the gap between himself and the limping Autobot.

What good was sport, he thought, if nobody got to watch?


	9. Create

"There must be other ways, different avenues of creation," Blackout asserted stubbornly, staring out at the mass of brightness that was Iacon. It was like a cold sun, a white smear on the horizon. What sort of lunacy would it take to desire to live in such an ugly, garish place? There was no systematic regulation to their society, no strictures and protocols to coordinate one's existence around. Even the basic configurations of their home-structures were maddeningly asymmetrical. Tall at one end, short at the other; round, square – could these Cybertronians not make up their minds?

He missed Kaon. He missed the muted hues of grey and brown, the dim lights, the rigid hierarchy of her construction. There, he could feel secure in the knowledge that it was constructed to last, to withstand any show of might and fury. Here, it seemed every building was on the verge of collapse, fighting a losing battle with gravity.

Giving the confused blot that deigned to call itself a metropolis one final glower, Blackout turned away, ambling back to his unwanted companion. "There must be ways to create a Spark without the use of the Allspark. Simpler ways, not subject to the whims of Autobot programmers."

"For one who claims to loathe me as much as you do, you spend much time following after me," Starscream replied peevishly, fiddling with a piece of broken scrap. It rolled between his fingers, over joints and back under again as he toyed with it. He glanced aside at Blackout, nonetheless, and shrugged. "I see no reason to subvert a tried and true method. Why bother?"

"Organic creatures reproduce independently. Partnered creation, without the use of an outside source." Blackout said, nodding to himself. Though he had only heard of such phenomena recently, it had become something of a fixation to him. He supposed, in retrospect, it was to be assumed that would be the method of non-Cybertronian procreation, odd as it was. Though, still, the process seemed too fantastic and strange to be readily entertained, borderline absurd. Too much was random chance, with too many variables and dissimilarities and logic jumps that did not cater to his rigid Guardian-style of thought. It raised unnatural questions in his mind. When had the idea come about to breed in such a manner? How were traits governed from parent to offshoot? How much was predetermined?

More importantly, why could a Cybertronian not also independently create a life?

Starscream's face twisted in revulsion, and he almost drew back, suddenly wanting more distance between them. "A disgusting notion."

"But possible," Blackout snapped back. It wasn't as if he were requesting Starscream to _participate_. By Maximo, no. He was merely making a point. "Why could a determined mechanism not create a life form of his own? If an organic can do so, surely a species as advanced as ourselves could as well."

Starscream sneered. "Organics begin life without knowledge or set personality type, mindless and whining. Utterly helpless. Pathetically so." He dropped the scrap-toy back to the ground with a solid clang, and kicked it aside to ensure a flat surface upon which to maneuver. "A life Sparked from a source other than the Allspark would be corrupt, deficit at best. Half-minded. What do you think drones are?"

Blackout hesitated. A life started so disturbingly feeble and dependant was… revolting, to say the least. And to have no identity, no programming, no sentient thought with which to comprehend a newfound life – what creature could bear such an existence? There had to be a way around… "What of a mind-link? A shared Spark?"

Bristling, the seeker rounded on him, clearly sickened. "What half-wit would want to link minds with such a degenerate such as yourself? A shared Spark is a perversion. Next you'll be asking of _Sparkbonding_." His body vibrated with a long shudder, and repugnance flitted through his optics at the mere suggestion. Semi-consciously, Starscream's hand began to rise toward his chest, as if to defend his Spark from Blackout's debased scheme. "We've been among the builders for too long. You're beginning to convert."

"You're one to speak! I've seen them fawn over you, and you've done nothing to change it." It wasn't sulky bitterness that colored his voice, he told himself, simply honest resentment. If anything, Starscream encouraged the behavior, reveling in the admiration that fairly oozed from those idiot builders brave enough to approach the warriors. Oh, yes, he towered over them, his gaggle of admirers. And they were, it seemed, never far.

"Well. At least they have _some_ good tastes." Starscream scoffed, somewhat mollified by the flattering reminder. "Simple creatures, but entertaining enough to tolerate."

"To touch an Autobot is to touch a Spark. They mingle all the while, even during interface," Blackout snidely retorted. "It's their idea of intimacy." A freakish breach of personal terrain, he thought, but when had the Autobots not been depraved?

"I would _never_ let a builder touch me!" the seeker spat, perhaps too defensively. He huffed, spitefully pivoting about to present his back to Blackout and glared sullenly at the distant Iacon. "I have no interest in Autobot debauchery. They offer nothing more than amusing diversions."

"'Amusing diversions' indeed," Blackout snorted, a hint of wickedness in his optics. "What of that shuttle-build that has been sniffing around? Jolt—"

"—is a horrible little gossip who doesn't have enough sense to offline his vocalizer," Starscream replied flatly, though Blackout noted the sudden tension in the set of his wide shoulders. "Feh. I've had enough of your drivel. A drone provides more stimulating conversation."

Blackout grunted indignantly, opening his mouth to deliver a scathing retort about 'stimulating conversations' and a rumor of a stratospheric encounter with a scientist, but, alas, Starscream had already taken off, heading back to the congested hive that occupied the edge of the landscape. Blackout scowled after him, optics tracking the sleek figure to the furthest reaches of perceptibility. "I didn't want to talk to you anyways," he told the empty space resentfully, a few moments after Starscream had disappeared into the blur of light. Waving a hand dismissively, he turned aside, wandering away from his chosen perch.

So Starscream doubted him. It proved nothing more than the obvious – Starscream was a twit.

There had to be a way.

His hand drifted to his lower torso, where his Spark nestled safely under its protective barriers. That energy – as bizarre and terrifying as the notion seemed – could surely be harnessed. Some manner of transferal to an empty shell, a mere portion of his Spark, and _perhaps_…

But how to get a hold on a shell without rousing suspicions? He could not simply request such a thing. And, doubtless, many would object to the heresy of a creature brought into being without the use of the Allspark. Some of his own kind would likely be disturbed by the notion, as the seeker had been.

His foot tramped down on something dense and sturdy, throwing off his equilibrium for a moment. Grumbling, he lifted his foot to regard what had so unbalanced him, intending to kick it down the slope. Dead and blackened metal winked in the sparse borrowed light, a dull, warped reflection of red optics staring back at him.

Blackout bent down, picking up the scrap Starscream had so idly played with. It was a good heft, solid despite its small damage. Slightly oxidized, but repairable, if one were so inclined. Unremarkable, but not exactly outright junk. He tossed it from hand to hand, an idea already forming in his mind. Many parts were deemed unusable by Autobots. Flawed. Great piles of scrap were, daily, slated to be melted down for new bits and pieces. Enough spare parts to, perhaps, form an entirely new being.

He grinned, carefully setting the scrapped metal back onto the ground. Giving it one last affectionate pat, the elite folded back into his alternate, following after the trajectory Starscream had taken, design plans flicking in his mind. He would not have to rely on faulty Autobot logic, nor the Allspark. It alone did not create life. It could be circumvented.

He, too, could grant life.


	10. Bonus: A Moment of Quiet

**Author's Note**: This is actually a failed chapter - one of many that didn't quite hit what I was aiming for, but it's close enough to warrant posting. So it's really not part ten. Kind of. It's what my first intention was for ten to be, before I realized this was less churlish and more 'Blackout whines about everything ever'. So, bonus, I suppose. Yes, let's call it a bonus. And it let's me dabble in my ongoing Brawl and Bonecrusher backstory, which is always both disturbing and oddly entertaining.

This ramble is seven kinds of pointless.

--

The cold of space was all-encompassing. In even the most insulated of vessels, it crept and wormed its way inside, chilling halls and stealing whatever warmth was to be found. It was the slow killer, the chafing, constant presence that loomed silent and dreadful as any specter of death.

This might have been a concern to an organic primitive, as they generally had to keep their internal and external body temperature at a certain designated level. Robotic life, however, had very little to be concerned with as far as a chill went. As long as there was nothing to freeze their limbs and lock their joints, what threat was the empty cold? It was as meaningless as the vast nothingness, and justly disregarded.

Blackout shifted, attempting to find a comfortable position in which to rest himself. Beside him, the viewing platform was alit with innumerable stars, black and white and little else to occupy the mind with. On a rare occasion, a bright whorl of color appeared in the distance, managing to attract his optics for a few moments before it drifted out of view again. What appeal did space hold? He wondered. Why did some actively _choose_ such endless nothingness when they could enjoy planetary existence?

But as the universe did not care for the thoughts of one Cybertronian, his questions went unanswered, skittering off into the quasi-silence of the ship. And he was left with nothing more than the contemplation of the physical. The vibration from the engines – on low power, allowing the Decepticons to drift senselessly through the void as they searched – was barely noticeable, a little tickle on the parts of him that touched the floor. The lights above were grey-blue, nearly off, but the darkness was of no true concern to any Cybertronian. Scorponok lay draped across his lap, luxuriating in the stretch after having been so long and thoughtlessly imprisoned within Blackout's body.

It was the boredom, he decided, absently playing with Scorponok's wicked scythe-tail, more than any other environmental hazard that one had to be wary of. It twisted the central processor, irritating as rust in a joint or gear, and twice as maddening.

Sometimes more so, if Brawl's recent lunacy was taken into account.

The Decepticon elite grunted softly, remembering the frantic skirmish. It hadn't been expected; far from it. Brawl had seemed mindlessly aggressive and standoffish, but that was the _normal_ state for the patently violent mechanism. Hardly worrying. Duly unnoted.

It had been a standard enough cycle. The collective that was their group had congregated the main deck for some sort of strange socialization to alleviate the tedium, driven out of their various hideaways by the sheer boredom of their endless flight. It wasn't much by the way of company, but any conversation was welcome, and the command deck was a wide enough area to allow a feeling of personal space. In truth – though Blackout would never admit it – the impromptu gathering had been rather enjoyable, in its own peculiar fashion.

Then, in the style of his luck, something had to go terribly awry.

One moment Brawl – a being that had become something of background noise to all save Bonecrusher – had stood placidly by, staring out at the command deck, surrounded by most of their meager force. Brooding, strangely quiet, and full of menace, but nothing particularly worrisome.

Blackout hadn't seen what had occurred. He had been quite happily occupied where he was, taking passive snipes at his loathsome commander. Barricade was in the middle of perhaps-defending, perhaps-insulting Starscream's military prowess, and, quite simply, something exploded.

This was followed by a roar fit to shake their very Sparks, and at large portion of Bonecrusher's arm and torso spraying out in a wave of ruined parts.

Immediately, the assembled Decepticons went on the attack, overwhelming the glitching Brawl and subduing him with no casualties – though not for lack of trying. The fool had gone mad, firing what little live ammunition he had been allotted before flinging himself at his fellows. It had been a furious battle, with Brawl simply flailing while those still in possession of their wits were forced to dodge delicate equipment and each other.

In good time, the badly damaged Brawl was trussed up and sent packing to the lowest cargo hold, and promptly was forgotten once the entertainment value wore off. Sometimes the occasional clank or roar made its way up through the decks, but it was but a passing thing of note, hardly worth the processing power it took to register the sound.

Bonecrusher, oddly enough, became restless and surly, staring at the floor with a vague sort of rage. Eventually, he stormed out, and was, in the style of his fellow shock trooper, forgotten shortly thereafter.

The what, why, or how of Brawl's madness were never divulged to Blackout, nor was there any particular reason for those happy little facts to be illuminated. It was what it was, and that was that. Brawl had had a malfunction. It mattered little after the danger had been nullified, and, in truth, most had been glad for the break in monotony, and opportunity for gossip.

The few remaining sane members of the crew looked to themselves for harm. Save for a few crushed fingers on Blackout's part and Scorponok's shorn tail, there were few wounds to compare.

It was declared that Brawl would be fixed… eventually. When they felt like it. And that had been the end of it.

At least, it would have been, had not Blackout loudly and stridently protested Starscream's dismissal of both his and Scorponok's damage, superficial though it was. And, true to form, he'd pushed a _little_ too far, shoving Starscream out of his good humor and right back into his typical, foul temperament. The commander, after a rather lengthy description of Blackout's unsavory origins, physical impossibilities involving a sprocket and what sounded like a painful amount of scrap metal, and the possible spawn that could result from such an engagement, stiffly told Blackout to take himself and his offshoot elsewhere, and hope he didn't happen upon them.

Prudently, Blackout did in fact make himself scarce, walking all the way to the aft of the ship. The last reprimand was still heavy in his mind; he had no desire to repeat himself of that particular lesson.

Which, of course, left him here, in the back of the ship, hiding away like some battle-rattled Autobot.

His gaze flicked back to the window as a splash of brightness was revealed on the far edge of the synthetic glass. Blue like internal fluids, fading to yellow as it neared the center. Ugly colors both, he thought. Autobot colors. He rumbled out a harsh growl-click, disliking the view, willing the ship to move faster to sooner pass by the blemish.

Heh. What then? More scorn, more empty planets, and pointless raids on alien vessels? He vented air from his shoulder intakes in frustration, sneering into the darkness. This was not a warrior's existence. This was not a _Decepticon_ existence.

… He missed Kolkular. He missed his rank, the known quantities of loyalty and privilege, and knowing where he stood, and being favored, and respected, and treated with deference. He missed being regarded with anything other than vague contempt.

He wouldn't call it lonely, per se. He felt more indignant than forlorn, aggrieved by this communal shunning. Admittedly, it was an extreme lapse in judgment, calling Starscream out like that, goading him on. If he had waited, bided his time but a small while longer, the seeker would have been at a disadvantage, and damaged enough in both body and status to close the power gap between them.

Had he not made a fool and a failure of himself before them all, Starscream's dint as leader would have been over, and he would not be so spurned among his kin. Instead, he had strengthened the seeker's rule, allowing him to escape unscathed (in a manner of speaking) from what surely would have been his ending.

Oh, yes, politics had such a part to play, as he should have accounted for. Before the scrimmage with Prime, Starscream's leadership had been under question, built upon the fragile precipice left by Lord Megatron's absence. Certainly, he could have provoked the seeker, seeded doubt, just enough to cause unrest among the ranks. Maximo knew, he would not have had to do much; it seemed every passing cycle, the others became more bold with their transgressions, encouraged by the inability of the seeker to rebuke _all_ of them.

If he had waited until Starscream had proven himself impotent, until _after_ the skirmish with the rabble of Autobots, it would have been ever so simple a matter to dispose of this elite who fancied himself a commander. The others would have supported him, perhaps even joined with him.

But he had not waited, and they cared not for the company of a substandard Decepticon.

From below came a burble of unhappiness, and the unsettled shifting of multiple legs as his thoughts seeped into his symbiote's mind.

Blackout grunted ambiguously, stilling himself. He absently patted the peeved parasite, optics drifting away from the window and to the floor. Perhaps he wasted too much thought on such trivialities of his current existence. In good time, circumstances would change. Surely he was not so weak-willed as to become what other perceived of him.

And what of these insults heaped upon him? Soon enough, they would be repaid in full. He need not think so intently over such matters. When they found Lord Megatron, he could again rise up to his esteemed position, and punish those who had so slighted him. But not now, not yet. He had learned his lesson well – perhaps not the one intended, but the one needed. He would wait. These were but passing things.

He was elite, he was Decepticon, and he would not falter again.


End file.
